


Cup of Tea?

by TheAsexualofSpades



Series: Quarantine Drabbles [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Asexuality, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, John is an easily confused bisexual, Lestrade is the best dad friend, M/M, Post-Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, Sherlock is an anxiety gay, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, papa lestrade puts up with so much shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23411707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: Three times someone offered John a cup of tea. He only understands it the final time.They're all human, whether they want to be or not. It's better to try and fumble through it together, isn't it?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Quarantine Drabbles [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677655
Comments: 6
Kudos: 203





	Cup of Tea?

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to be either platonic or romantic, you can read it either way.

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Prompt: “Don’t get up—I’ll do it.”

* * *

John looks around the flat. He’s not been here more than a few hours, really, even though it feels like it’s been a week. Just this morning he’d been in his own lonely little shoebox, using the wall for support to be able to walk from his bed across the pitiful space to the desk. Now he walks— _walks_ —up the stairs two at a time, following this incredible, _fascinating_ man he now calls a flatmate.

“So is this what life is normally like with you then?” John tosses his coat over the hook and collapses into one of the chairs. The red plaid fabric gives under his fingers as he cranes his neck around. “Running around at mad hours, just ahead of the police, defying death?”

“I’d say I wasn’t necessarily the one who needed to stay ahead of the police,” Sherlock says, shooting John a smirk behind the door.

Well, that is true.

“To answer your question,” Sherlock continues, landing dramatically in the chair opposite him, “yes. This is what it’s like.”

“Full of danger.”

“Constantly trying to outwit your opponent.”

“No regard for our own lives.”

“Lots of injuries. Violent deaths.”

“Absolutely preposterous.”

“Ridiculous, even.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Sherlock cocks his head to the side, confidence in every minute gesture. “Care to join me?”

“Oh, god yes.”

Laughter bubbles up before either of them can stop it, starting first at small giggles and growing to rolling heaves, bouncing off the walls until Mrs. Hudson yells at them to keep it down. Sherlock waves a hand in apology, still laughing, mirth never leaving his gaze. They sober a few moments later, just staring at each other.

“Cup of tea?”

“What?” John blinks, trying to wrap his head around the very mundane question.

“Cup. Of. Tea?” Sherlock repeats, smiling slightly at John’s fish-like hesitation.

“Oh, yes. Please. Wonderful.”

“Don’t get up—“ Sherlock holds out a hand when John makes to pull himself out of this surprisingly comfortable chair—“I’ll get it.”

“Oh, alright. Thanks.”

“Of course.”

* * *

The coat feels wrong draped across his shoulders. He’s too small. Too broad. Too smooth.

Distantly, he can hear one of the officers arguing with Lestrade.

“It’s evidence, Detective, we can’t—“

“Let him keep it.” Lestrade’s voice cuts through the noise. “He’s been through the wringer.”

“But, Detective Inspector—“

“ _Leave it._ ”

If John had any energy left in his body, he’d’ve shivered a little at the low burn of barely concealed anger in Lestrade’s voice. Lestrade, who always observed their cases with the air of a bemused naturalist. Lestrade, who never failed to ask just the right question to send them chasing the right leads.

Lestrade, who might be the only person right now who understands.

John feels more than sees the DI ease himself down onto the pavement next to him, an anchor in the whirlpool of activity still bustling about. Everything happens behind a glass wall, sirens muted, the scrutiny of thousands of eyes, the howl of cameras. John can only sit there, blinking with the wrong weight on his shoulders.

“I’ll pull you in tomorrow,” he hears Lestrade say, “to ask. D’you have somewhere to stay?”

On instinct, his lips form the words he heard spoken so long— _so long_ —ago, but they splutter out on his tongue. He can’t go back. Not now. Not _ever,_ maybe.

“I’ll call Sarah.”

God, is that what his voice sounds like? The noise drags pins and needles over his tongue, making it a useless mush that can’t twist itself to make words.

Lestrade, bless him, doesn’t comment, only claps him lightly on the shoulder.

“You’ll get through this, mate,” he mutters, “we all will.”

The thick black beast swallowing John’s heart begs to differ. IT worms its way slowly, lazily, through his bones, through his muscles, through his soul. _I am patient,_ it hisses as it climbs, _I will always be patient and without hope._

“You should drink something,” Lestrade prods gently, oblivious to the drowning man next to him, “cup of tea?”

John nods automatically, desperate to hold on to some semblance of normality. He forces his knees to unbend, only to be halted by Lestrade’s hand on his shoulder.

He begs him soundlessly not to say the words he knows are on the tip of the DI’s tongue.

“Don’t get up—“

_No, no, don’t say it, that was his thing, he said that to me._

“—I’ll get it.”

The next thing he hears is the uncomfortable rustle of the sheets around his body the next morning.

* * *

It’s the end of the day. The sunlight hides behind the buildings of London, not showing its face through the windows of 221B.

John lands in his chair with a sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“I still can’t believe you did that.”

“It was a simple matter of calculating the precise distance between the two rooftops, adjusting my stride length to get the optimal speed, and—“

“You just threw yourself at the problem and hoped it would solve itself.”

“…in my defense, this strategy has prevailed in the past.”

John can’t help but snort. It’s not that Sherlock is _wrong,_ per say, it’s just that he’s phrasing it in a way that isn’t what _actually_ happens.

“If it’s not broken, don’t fix it?”

Sherlock plops himself in his chair, stretching lazily. “Well, not necessarily. Just because something works does not mean it can’t be improved.”

“It’s just that no one else can tell you.”

“That’s not entirely correct.” Sherlock blinks one eye open. “I will take only a few sources of information into consideration.”

That’s about as close of Sherlock gets normally to admitting he enjoys help from other people. A fond smile grows on John’s lips as he gazes around the flat. The yellow smiley face on the wall, the pock-marked mantlepiece, the utterly sublime man lounging in the chair opposite him.

It feels like home.

“I don’t feel like cooking,” he says, looking back at his flatmate. “What d’you want for takeout?”

Sherlock waves a hand carelessly. “Whatever you eat.”

“You’re eating tonight too,” John insists, reaching for his mobile tucked in his pocket, “so what’ll it be?”

He looks up expectantly, fingers poised on the buttons. Sherlock stares at him for a moment. He stares right back, not to be intimidated out of it this time. It’s Sherlock who blinks first, sighing and throwing his head back against the chair.

“That Thai place on the corner.”

“Perfect.” John taps away at his mobile, waiting for the ding. “There. Should be here in half an hour.”

“Wonderful.”

“Yes,” John agrees without the sarcasm, “it is.”

He knows, now. He knows how to watch a Holmes back. He knows the sprawl across the chair is mostly for show. He knows the fluttering eyelids hide something that Sherlock desperately wants to say. He knows the twitch of his fingers belies something terribly wrong.

He hasn’t quite made the leap to what it’s about yet.

Sherlock raises his head, curls backlit by the lamp in the corner. He narrows his gaze at John, who bares himself to the scrutiny. He learned long ago you can’t hide from a Holmes. Sherlock probably knows—scratch that, definitely knows—he’s watching him back. John braces himself for the slew of deductions, ready to be amazed and a little perplexed at just how much this man sees.

“Cup of tea?”

He blinks. “What?”

The ghost of a smirk touches Sherlock’s lips. “Cup. Of. Tea?”

Ah. There it is.

Sherlock’s fingers press against each other until his fingertips turn white. His legs tremble slightly against the chair.

Despite his insistence to the contrary, Sherlock needs people as much as the rest of them. He gives himself away, piece by piece, deduction by deduction, making himself useful, chasing away the isolation with the need other people had for his skills. Because they care about him in some selfish way.

Because he’ll bring them a cup of tea if they want it.

“Yes, please,” John says softly, standing.

“Don’t get up—“ Sherlock leaps to his feet—“I’ll get it.”

John simply waits for Sherlock to bustle closer to him with all that maniacal energy. He covers the man’s hand with his own.

“Let’s make it together.”

Sherlock’s gaze roves over him again, crease ironed into his forehead. John lets him. He has nothing to hide.

“Together,” Sherlock repeats softly, testing the word out on his tongue. John’s going to be honest, it’s a little funny how _this_ part, this simple little thing is the thing that gets him to realize it. How much he doesn’t have to try and make John stay.

Well, any more than he already has.

“Come on. Kettle won’t boil itself.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr while we're all in quarantine. 
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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